


Out of Hours

by eternallygapingmaw



Series: Out Of Hours [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), London Spy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom James Bond, Bottom Q, Breathplay, Cats, Feelings, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Snark, Top James Bond, Top Q, Unrepentant Filth, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternallygapingmaw/pseuds/eternallygapingmaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James rather likes to imagine that Q’s perpetual air of crisp irritability is due to being in dire need of a <em>damn good fucking</em>, a situation with which James, ever the gentleman, would be only too pleased to assist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

James is not averse to having sex with men, not at all, although such liaisons tend to be personal rather than professional - at least inasmuch as his job rarely calls for him to demonstrate his proficiency in this area. That said, to be brutally frank, there’s little that could be deemed ‘personal’ about the kinds of fleeting, anonymous encounters he prefers when he’s in that very particular mood. Dogging areas. Nightclub fire-escapes. Even the occasional sauna. The seediness adds a _frisson_ , a certain something. He goes for men whom he feels are of a similar inclination: men who identify as straight, even when they’re balls-deep in another guy. James hasn’t ever troubled himself to ponder the inherent contradictions of this mindset. All he knows is that he would never usually be attracted to someone like Q.

James can tell that Q is gay from the moment he claps eyes on him. It isn’t just the hair that gives him away, or the clothes that remind James of his chemistry teacher circa 1979 but which, he knows, are in fact the finest faux-nerd designer clobber, probably some upstart Hoxton hipster label that James has never heard of because Prada would be way too mainstream, darling. No. It’s his brittle reserve, his flintiness. It’s not gaydar, of course, because James isn’t gay. Not even the tiniest bit.

James suspects - no, James _knows_ \- that Q knows all there is to know about him, but the reverse is not true: James is not privy to Q’s files, his psychological assessments, his medical and employment records. Which is why James breaks into Q’s flat. The address is not difficult to obtain - tricking a junior Q-branch administrator is the stuff of amateur sleuthing. He might, however, have been more surprised by the location, were it not for Q’s essential contrariness: the bleakly Ballardian ex-council estate south of the river seems fitting, somehow, all disquieting angles and windswept, desolate walkways.

James knows that Q will not be home, seeing as he last saw him determinedly tinkering with a motherboard and a soldering iron less than an hour ago, but he cannot discount the presence of some other inhabitant (...a flatmate? A lover?) and treads warily at first. The flat is blandly neat. There is no evidence that Q lives with, or has ever lived with, another human being. There are only Q’s two cats. James knows nothing about cats, but even he can recognise that these particular specimens are the cats of a connoisseur: velvet-pelted, striped and spotted like miniature jungle beasts. Polite but distant, they advance to sniff at his fingers and trouser-legs yet shrink away from his attempts to pet them, so amusingly like their owner that James cannot help but grin.

James pauses at the doorway of Q’s bedroom: a double-bed with the duvet hastily dragged up, a single empty mug and a roll of toilet-paper on the bedside cabinet. Wherever Q might be getting his kicks - if indeed he is, as James rather likes to imagine that Q’s perpetual air of crisp irritability is due to being in dire need of a _damn good fucking_ , a situation with which James, ever the gentleman, would be only too pleased to assist - James recognises instinctively that it isn’t here. Which is something, at least.

In the kitchen, James investigates the fridge: milk, an elderly hunk of Cheddar, the remains of a takeaway curry decanted into a plastic container. Disappointing. He has more luck when he rummages through the cupboards, turning up a half-drunk bottle of decent whiskey behind the boxes of teabags and kitty-kibble. James pours a hefty slug into a tumbler and settles down to trash TV in the living-room.

By the time Q returns, it is late. The cats, who have been sitting like sentinels on the armrests of the sofa, slip noiselessly from their perches. A few minutes later, James hears the sound of the front door opening and Q walks in, cradling one of the cats close to his chest with the other darting back-and-forth around his ankles, chirruping.

Q bends to let the cat spill liquidly from his arms and snaps on the light. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello, dear,’ says James. ‘Busy day at the office?’

‘Not that _you’d_ know,’ says Q, mildly. He picks up James’ empty glass by the rim and disappears into the kitchen. ‘Why,’ he asks, above the sound of a kettle being filled, ‘are you in my flat?’

James takes the opportunity to let his knees fall open a little wider, adjusts himself to best effect. ‘I’m here to seduce you.’

‘Really.’ Q peers around the doorway. He seems less impressed by any of this than James had hoped. ‘And what exactly have I done to give you the impression that I’m that easy?’


	2. Chapter 2

Oh. He’s good, James will grant him that. He’s good, but he’s not _that_ good, and James has been in the business a long time. A double-oh agent is primed to pick up on the tiniest of tells. Q’s gaze wavers, just once - down to James’ crotch then back up to his face - and his tongue presses minutely against his lower lip. _Aha_ , thinks James. _Gotcha_. He fixes Q with his most smouldering and lustful gaze, in an effort to convey the full intensity of his erotic intent.

‘Tea?’ asks Q.

It is all that James can do to suppress a growl, but Q has knelt to pet the cats and is no longer looking in his direction.

‘Whiskey, seeing as you’ve got it.’

Q huffs and returns to the kitchen, hotly pursued by the cats. Sounds of meowing and kibble being shaken into bowls, a teaspoon clattering into the sink. He returns a few minutes later with a mug of tea and the bottle of whiskey, a clean tumbler turned upside-down over the top.

Q sets down his mug and the bottle on the coffee table and plucks the remote from James’ hand. ‘What’s this crap you’re watching?’

‘I’m not watching it,’ says James, reflexively. On the screen, a woman with pencilled-in eyebrows is bemoaning an impulsive tattoo.

Q plonks himself down on the sofa next to James and flips back and forth through the channels before settling on an old Open University re-run, in which a bearded man scribbles equations on a blackboard with - to James’ mind - incomprehensible enthusiasm.

‘Oh, I used to watch this all the time when I was a kid.’ Q wriggles delightedly. ‘Of course, that kind of stuff’s a bit old hat nowadays.’

‘Of course,’ says James, faintly.

The bearded man drones on. Q sips his tea, smiling to himself. ‘He was my very first crush, you know. Still can’t resist a man with a beard.’

James has never heard Q talk openly about his sexuality before: his candour is both unexpected and sweetly disarming. Still, James cannot hold back a snort at the thought of baby, bespectacled Q in the throes of his geeky adoration. Q gives him a narrow look.

‘You really don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what?’

‘Have you _any_ idea? What it was like for me, growing up?’ Q knocks back the rest of his tea like a shot. James tries to protest, but Q raises both his hand and his voice and carries on. ‘Of course you bloody don’t, because you’re _straight_. You’re so straight, it’s virtually a CV item. Professional heterosexual, global shagging proficiency. Fucking men is just a diversion for you, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter a jot to you where you stick it, not really, you’re still _straight_.’

James is not unfamiliar with Q calling him out on various disreputable aspects of his behaviour, but there’s a vehemence to the way in which Q spits out his little speech that leaves him momentarily fumbling for words. ‘Look, Q - I’m sorry - if you want me to go - it’s just that I think - well, I _thought_ - ’

‘Oh, do give over, Bond,’ says Q, and kisses him. Q’s mouth tastes, surprisingly, of whiskey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1,500 words of snarky porn with no redeeming features whatsoever. Thanks for welcoming this 00q n00b with kudos and comments; I hope this does not disappoint!

‘The problem is,’ mumbles Q when they break for air, ‘I know all this, and I don’t even care.’ He lifts James’s arm, sniffs. ‘Pheromones,’ he accuses. ‘You’ve been drugging me.’

‘I’ve been slipping pills into your tea for weeks,’ says James.

‘You old romantic, you.’ Q noses his way from James’ armpit to his neck, nipping as he goes.

‘Less of the old, if you don’t mind.’

‘Mm.’ James can feel Q’s laughter hot against his jaw. ‘You’ve also given me a terrific hard-on.’

He’s not alone: James feels positively light-headed with lust, as if all the blood in his body has rushed to his groin. He can play this cool, though, he can hold himself back until Q is frantic for it. ‘Need some help with that?’

‘Got anything particular in mind?’

‘I could suck you off, if you like.’

‘And they say I’m the brilliant one.’ Q wriggles free of James’ embrace, plants his feet firmly apart on the floor and puts his hands behind his head. ‘Do your worst.’

James rolls his eyes at Q’s cheek, but he kneels down between Q’s spread legs all the same, hooking his hands behind Q’s knees to pull him forward so that Q’s crotch is on a level with his face. The shape of his erection is clearly visible through the fabric. James palms him there - just the once, just to make Q squirm - before making short work of Q’s belt and flies. There’s a small damp patch on Q’s underwear. Q takes a shaky breath as James circles the pad of his thumb around it, feeling the head of the cock beneath. ‘Wet for me already, darling? How very flattering.’

Q recovers himself quickly, snorts. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

‘And you should know, you little snoop.’

Q looks furious for a moment - and legitimately so, to be fair - but his desire to be sucked off is clearly greater than his desire for an argument. He lets James touch him through his pants. ‘I do get very wet,’ he admits. He sounds almost shy.

‘Show me.’ James yanks the waistband of Q’s underwear down beneath his balls. Q’s cock bobs up full and hard. James takes a moment to admire it: slim and elegant, just like its owner, and uncut - his personal preference - the head exposed with a pearly bead of fluid already gathering at the tip. He takes hold of it at the base, and leans in. Q closes his eyes.

‘No,’ says James. ‘Look at me.’ Q does as he is told as James licks slowly up and down the shaft of Q’s cock, avoiding the head, never breaking eye-contact.

‘Oh my,’ says Q. He is blushing furiously: it’s oddly becoming.

James gives Q’s cock a few leisurely tugs, easing the foreskin back slowly with every stroke so that the head pops free between his fingers, swollen and obscene. Q is panting now, freely leaking pre-come. James plays the tip of his tongue against Q’s slit, just teasing, tasting him.

Q makes a stricken noise. ‘You said you’d _suck_ it,’ he says, plaintively.

James stops licking Q’s cock and stares at him. ‘Were you brought up, Q, or dragged up? Ask nicely.’ He’ll pay for every barb and jibe, no doubt, but right now he’s having far too much fun taking Q apart. Q is delicious like this, away from his gadgets and his soldering irons and his bloody mugs of Earl Grey, sprawled on his sofa with his dick out, hard and leaking and gagging for it. James cannot help but wish he’d made a move sooner.

‘007.’ Q kicks his thigh. ‘ _Please_ suck my cock. That’s an order.’

‘Understood.’ James flashes him a grin and takes him in.

‘Shit,’ says Q. ‘Shit, shit, shit -’ Still he holds James’ gaze, and his expression is rapt as James bobs up and down on his cock. Truth be told, James would usually prefer to be on the receiving end of this particular act, but there’s definitely something to be said for sucking off the Quartermaster: his eyes wide and green behind his glasses, his long fingers creeping into James’ hair, the way the taste of him changes as his balls begin to tighten.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ gasps Q. The urgency in his voice is unmistakable. ‘If you don’t want to - I mean, I think I’m -’

James pushes a knuckle up behind Q’s balls and rubs him there, hard. Q yelps and shakes and floods James’ mouth with spurt after spurt of come. James holds him down by the hipbones until the shaking subsides. When at last Q is still, James pulls away and spits discreetly into his handkerchief. For a few minutes the only sound is the burble of the television. James rests his chin on Q’s knee, waits for him to regain his composure.

‘Goodness me,’ Q says at last. He runs his fingers through his hair. He looks appealingly flustered, two spots of red high on his cheeks. ‘Um. Well. Yes. Thank you.’

James crooks an eyebrow. ‘You’re welcome, Quartermaster.’

‘Right then.’ Q shakes his head, takes a deep breath. He tucks himself away and stands up, only a little unsteady on his feet, then holds out his hand. ‘Come into the boudoir and ravish me, why don’t you? And bring the whiskey.’

Q’s bedroom is surely one of the least boudoir-like interiors that James has ever seen, although turning off the overhead light and switching on the bedside lamp goes a little way towards disguising its cheerless utilitarianism. The cats are sprawled regally across the duvet, but Q scoops them up - one under each arm - and takes them out. When he returns, James makes sure that the door is firmly closed behind him: this is not a mission to be sabotaged.

Q proves to be uncharacteristically amenable in his post-orgasmic haze, allowing James to push him down onto the bed and strip him with minimal fuss (‘ _Don’t_ just throw my clothes on the the floor, you could at least put them over the back of that chair’). James takes his time, running his hands over Q’s body until Q is sighing with pleasure. Q’s chest is so very smooth and white, the tiny peaks of his nipples snagging under James’ palm in a way that makes Q’s breath catch. Filing this detail away for future reference, James skims his hand lower to where smooth and white gives way to a most pleasing thatch of dark hair. Q’s dick is limp, lolling against his thigh. James moves to touch it, determined to fondle him back to hardness, but Q bats his hand away.

‘No. Let me -’ Q reaches for James’ belt.

‘Wait a minute.’ James pulls back and extracts a wrapped condom from his back pocket, holds it up between thumb and forefinger. Q makes a tiny inclination of his head. James thinks it might be a shake rather than a nod - which is strange, he’d never have had Q down as the bare-backing type - but he thinks he should check, before things get out of hand. ‘You want me to use this?’ he asks.

‘I -’ Q bites his lip. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’

James raises an eyebrow. 

‘It’s fine, honestly,’ says Q. ‘I know where you’ve been.’

‘Pity I can’t say the same.’

‘What’s this, 007? A lecture on safety from _you_ , of all people? Or are you merely concerned for my morals?’ Q glares at him. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘With my life,’ James spits back. The words leave his mouth before he even has time to think about them.

‘Well, then,’ says Q. His expression softens.

James takes advantage of this brief moment of détente to lean forward and lick Q’s nipples. Q gasps and his hands clutch at James’ head. James delicately takes hold of Q’s left nipple between his teeth, tugs. Q bucks and whines. James suckles Q’s nipple hard for a moment before he releases him, grinning against Q’s chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. ‘Just as long as you’re sure. It’s not me who’s going to end up with an arseful of spunk.’

‘Maybe I like it,’ says Q, waspishly.

‘Do you now?’ murmurs James. He lowers himself on top of Q, ruts his still-clothed erection slowly against Q’s bare cock, letting Q get a feel for its stiffness and size. At this, Q makes a bitten-back noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. ‘What else do you like?’ James asks, very quietly.

‘ _Everything_ ,’ Q whispers back.

James takes a moment to consider the veritable banquet of a boy laid out beneath him: the ruffled hair, the kiss-softened, parted lips, the glasses askew on his nose. Q looks eager and aroused but ever-so-faintly, ever-so-gratifyingly terrified. James reaches down, closing his fingers around Q’s cock. Q shivers: he’s not quite hard again, but he’s not completely soft anymore either. James nuzzles at his ear. ‘I’m going to have your mouth, bare. Then I’m going to finger you open and fuck your arse, bare. I’ll probably flip you over a few times, take you front and back. Get you on top and riding it for a bit. How does that sound?’

‘Shakespeare himself could only dream of such eloquence,’ says Q, his tight sarcasm belied by the way his prick jumps in James’ hand. ‘Get on with it.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just snarky porn, but with added...feelings? Plus bonus London Spy references. Mild breathplay.

James considers throttling him, just a little. He places his hand around Q’s throat. Q’s nostrils flare and his eyelids flutter shut, but his expression is beatific rather than panicked.

‘Yeah?’ says James. ‘You into that?’

‘Sometimes,’ says Q, breathy. ‘Maybe not tonight. But sometimes.’

‘Dangerous,’ says James. He tightens his fingers.

‘Yes,’ wheezes Q.

‘Why don’t I give you something to really choke on?’ says James.

Q croaks out a laugh. ‘You’re such a throwback,’ is all he manages to say.

James lets both Q and his insult go, then stands up and begins to undress. He makes no attempt to turn his actions into any kind of striptease. Even so, Q props himself up on one elbow to watch, toying with his own dick as James sheds his clothes with brisk efficiency. It’s flattering, thinks James, very flattering. He takes hold of himself and gives his cock a few quick pulls, not that he needs it - he’s so fucking hard, he could probably drill through concrete - but just to watch Q's eyes widen.

‘Ever imagined having this up you?’ he asks, in as casual a tone as he can muster. He knows he’ll be beating off for weeks to the memory of this moment, to the image of Q touching himself in this dreary room, eyeing James’ cock with the same fascinated look he usually reserves for a particularly enticing circuitboard.

Q gives him a crafty smile. ‘Frequently,’ he says. ‘I wonder, though. Will the reality live up to the fantasy?’

‘Suck it and see?’

Q rolls over on his back and groans, but his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter. He flaps a hand in James’ general direction. ‘Make me,’ he says.

James is on him in an instant, kneeling over his chest, one hand in Q’s hair and the other holding his cock at Q’s lips.

‘Oh, _yes_ ,’ breathes Q. His eyes are bright. He darts out his tongue and licks the tip of James’ cock. James cants his hips forward, eases himself into Q’s warm, willing mouth.

‘God. You little genius.’ James braces himself against the bed and fucks Q’s face deep enough to have him gagging on every downstroke, but Q is nothing if not game. He clutches at James’ thighs, pulling him closer, giving him a hint of teeth whenever he gets too rough. James marvels at the sight: Q’s intense frown of concentration, the spit-smeared slide of his own rigid length. ‘Q. Your lips look so good around my cock.’

Q makes an indistinct noise of agreement, and the vibration against his shaft makes James swear and pull out. ‘Oof,’ he says. ‘Easy, tiger. Some of us are only good for one go-round.’

Q smirks at him and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Take the blue pill, old man.’

‘Shush.’ James flings himself down onto the bed, on his back. ‘Get up here and turn round. Show me your hole.’

Q grumbles at this brusque directive but he arranges himself on all fours over James’ body, head-to-tail. James palms Q’s arse, squeezing and spreading his buttocks, watching the sly wink of his arsehole.

Q gives James a dubious look over his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be able to concentrate if you start fiddling around back there.’

‘Stop bellyaching and put that mouth to good use, why don’t you?’

Q chuckles and leans down to kiss James’ cock. James licks his thumb and presses it to Q’s hole, his fingers curled against Q’s taint. At this, Q’s head jerks up. James hums his appreciation as his thumb breaches the muscle and sinks inside. ‘Christ, you’re tight. You get fucked often?’

‘That,’ hisses Q, ‘is none of your damn business.’ But his spine dips as he pushes himself back into the touch. James hold his hand still and lets Q fuck himself like this for a few moments more before circling his thumb deep inside, trying to open him up. Q groans.

‘You dirty boy.’ James pumps his thumb in and out. Again, he wonders about the men who have been here before him, and jealousy needles under his skin, bright and sharp. ‘You really expect me to believe you’re not getting this filled every Friday night? Tell me.’

‘Right. That’s enough. _Stop_.’ Q pulls away, swings around to face him. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Couldn’t we have had this conversation before you started sticking your fingers up my fundament?’

James shrugs. ‘Seemed as good a time as any.’

Q blinks at him. His mouth works for a moment, as if he is trying out the words in his head before he speaks. ‘I spend eighteen hours a day dealing with you and your little double-oh chums and all your bloody nonsense,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t really have the time for anything else. Or anybody else, for that matter. It’s just me and the cats. And they don’t much care if I’m here or not, as long as they get fed.’

But that’s not all, James suspects. He waits.

‘Still. Seeing as you asked. A couple of years ago, there was somebody.’ Q pauses. ‘He was...a spy.’

James smirks.

‘Haha. Well.’ Q gives him the side-eye. ‘He was nothing like you. I was his first.’

James is momentarily taken aback at the notion of a virginal agent: he supposes such a creature might exist, although - like an armadillo, say, or a flying squirrel - he’s never encountered one in real life. ‘So what happened?’

‘What do you think, 007?’

James runs through the possibilities, and decides not to surmise: _he screwed you over, yeah? He gave you the clap? He ran off with a double-oh? Crap, did_ I _fuck him?_ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He died, of course. And horribly.’

‘Shit, Q. I’m sorry.’ He means it.

‘Like I told you. He was a spy.’ Q tone is clipped. ‘And that’s what happens, isn’t it? To spies.’

James has the sense that he has just been handed a valuable piece of intelligence: something that Q would not give away lightly, and something that he should keep secret and safe, guard with the utmost care. He says, very carefully, ‘I’m not going to die, Q.’

Q fixes him with an incalculably scornful stare. ‘ _Everybody_ dies. Or haven’t you noticed?’

James settles his hand on the nape of Q’s neck, rubs until he feels Q’s tense muscles begin to relax. ‘Oh, I reckon you’ll be stuck with me for a bit.’

‘You know, I told Q-branch I was celibate. When I signed up.’

‘Like a priest...’

Q sniggers. ‘I don’t think priests toss off as often as I do.’

‘You really do need to get out more, Q.’ James eases Q down onto the bed, on his back. ‘Come on now. You still want to fuck?’ Q nods. ‘Spread your legs for me, lovely. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ Q tuts at this but he lets James splay him open, hook one foot over his shoulder. James kisses slowly down the length of the slim, pale thigh, pauses to nip at the junction of thigh and buttock. Q moans and digs his heel into James’ back, urging him lower. James murmurs against the underside of Q’s bollocks, ‘You must hate me right now.’

‘No more than usual,’ says Q, to the ceiling. He’s fully hard again, his cock leaking wet smears against his belly.

‘Mm.’ James kisses his taint. Q gasps. ‘How can I ever make it up to you?’

‘Oh _god_.’ Q’s hands clutch at the duvet as James’ tongue probes his hole. ‘I - ah! - I’m sure you’ll think of _something,_ ’ he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we return to our usual schedule of filth, having had a brief break for Feelings in the previous chapter.

Q might pride himself on being the brains of the outfit, but James thinks that eating Q out has proven to be his smartest move yet. Rimming, it would appear, turns the usually prickly Quartermaster to jelly. James sucks at Q’s arsehole, licks and noses along Q’s crack. He smells faintly of shower-gel and more strongly of fresh sweat and sex: intoxicating.

‘You taste amazing,’ James murmurs. ‘I could kiss your little cunt for hours.’

‘007.’ Q covers his face. ‘You’re making me blush.’

‘What? I thought you’d enjoy a bit of dirty talk. And you might want to call me James when I’ve got my tongue. Up. Your. Backside.’ He punctuates each word with a lewd lick.

Q grabs at his own cock, and his arsehole spasms. ‘Fuck. _Fuck_. You’ll make me come if you keep doing that.’ Q swallows hard. ‘James.’

‘Hold fire, Quartermaster. You’ll come sitting on my prick and not before.’

Q whines. James takes pity on him and turns to kiss the inside of his knee, which under any other circumstances would seem like a fairly neutral zone - only Q’s entire body is now so over-sensitised that he flinches at the slightest touch.

‘Steady,’ says James. He runs his hands along Q’s skinny flanks. Q breathes in through his nose, subsides.

‘I’m hoping you’ve got some lube,’ James says. ‘I don’t think spit and a shove is going to cut it here.’

‘Hell, no,’ says Q. ‘Put these away first, will you?’ He takes off his glasses, folds them shut and hands them to James. Without them, he looks younger than ever, and James feels a brief stab of something akin to guilt - a sensation with which he is largely unfamiliar, so it takes him a moment to process. What exactly does James think he is doing here, beyond the obvious? No lasting good can come of this encounter. Q’s initial assessment of him was quite correct - he’s a heartless bastard who just wants to get his end away. Still - Q’s pissiness has been getting on his tits for months, so this new, improved version (stark-bollock naked, on his back with his legs open, responding so beautifully to James’ every kiss and caress) is infinitely preferable. In that respect at least, the mission is a success.

 _And he really does need a fucking_ , James’ inner demon observes. _Look at him. Look._

Q’s voice breaks into his thoughts. ‘Top drawer. Lube’s in there too.’ James wonders what else might be lurking in the top drawer of Q’s bedside cabinet, but it’s otherwise empty save for a half-popped blister pack of Zopiclone and an old iPhone with a cracked screen. He stashes Q’s glasses safely away, retrieves the lube and slicks up his fingers.

The first finger slides in easily enough. The second, slipped in alongside the first, hits Q’s prostate. Q digs his heels into the duvet, arches his back and _yowls_.

‘It’s the neighbours I feel sorry for,’ says James.

‘Oh, bugger the neighbours,’ pants Q.

‘Your turn first.’

Q swats at him. James jiggles his hand up and down in retaliation, his fingers still deep in Q’s arse. Q writhes.

‘Just you wait,’ gasps Q, ‘just you _bloody_ wait -’

‘Want another finger up there?’

Q looks baleful, but he lets his knees drop open wider. ‘Go on,’ he says.

James works Q’s arse diligently for a while, until his three fingers slide in and out easily. Then he pulls them out and lets Q apply the lube to his cock.

‘Now there’s a weapon that could inflict some damage,’ Q says. He runs his hand up and down the shaft with a professional air. Without his glasses, he has to lean in close to see properly, holding James’ cock mere inches from his face. The warmth of his breath and his touch make James hiss through his teeth: he’s more than ready for this.

‘I’ll put it in nice and slow,’ James tells him. ‘You won’t feel a thing.’

‘Hm. Unlikely, unless you’re planning on knocking me out first,’ says Q. ‘How do you want me?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd make them get on with it a bit quicker, but ...you know how it is with these two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a considerable amount of filth, all told.

Q sinks to his elbows, buries his face in the crook of his arm.

‘Oh,’ he says, then ‘ _Ow_.’

Knelt behind him, James stills his hips. ‘Q. Am I hurting you?’

‘Yes,’ says Q. ‘Please don’t stop.’

James presses himself deeper with little nudges. He’s only half-way inside, but it’s already the tightest, sweetest clench around his cock. He pulls himself all the way out just so he can push back in again, watch Q’s arsehole tense and then give, surrender to being penetrated. The pressure makes his cock flex almost painfully. Q throws his head back, panting.

‘You like that? Want a bit more?’ James can barely keep himself in check. His thighs and back and arse are aching with tension. Q only has to give the word, and he will pound him through the mattress.

‘Shit, there’s _more_?’ Q pretends to sag.

James growls at him. ‘I could fuck that cheek right out of you, if you want.’

‘Promises, promises.’ Q spreads his knees a little, rocks back so that James slides further inside him. James sucks in a breath. ‘Mm. Feels pretty good, actually. I like it deep.’

‘Bloody bet you do.’ James reaches a hand beneath Q’s belly, but he’s surprised to find that Q’s dick is soft.

‘Sorry,’ Q says. ‘Lost it a bit there.’

James leans forward, noses at the nape of Q’s neck. ‘Why didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have just carried on ramming it in.’

‘It’s all right. I like a challenge.’

‘Reckon you could get it up for me again?’ James rolls his hips lazily. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Q stifles a laugh. ‘Can I go on top for a bit?’

They rearrange themselves upon the bed, James propped up on the pillows. He finds the lube and coats his dick again. Q straddles him, eases himself down slowly. James watches a succession of emotions flit across his face, knowing that Q is too short-sighted to realise how closely he is being scrutinised: intense concentration and discomfort give way to relief and finally a tentative but growing arousal.

‘How does that feel?’ James asks, when Q is fully seated in his lap. He bends his knees and Q leans backward with a sigh.

‘ _Big_ ,’ says Q. His wide-eyed frankness makes James laugh out loud.

Q rocks back and forth with an experimental air, biting his lip. Then he shifts to place his feet flat on the bed, in order to give himself more leverage. His cock is beginning to lift and fill.

‘This is nice,’ says James. ‘I like seeing how you get yourself hard.’

Q looks devilish. ‘Should I touch it?’

‘ _Fuck_. Yes. Go on. Put some lube on it first.’

So Q strokes his dick and fucks himself on James’ cock as James murmurs his encouragement. He lets Q set the pace, steadying Q with his hands upon his hips but not trying to move him. It’s beautiful to watch - and Q is obviously enjoying himself, judging from his breathless little moans and the amount of pre-come drooling down his length - but James doesn’t want it to end like this. He wants to take control, to fuck Q in the most primal ways possible.

‘I think you should get back down on all fours for me now,’ says James. ‘Let me make you come.’

This time, Q’s body accepts him willingly, and James fucks him the way he likes best, fast and hard. He looks down to where they are joined, to his thick shaft pumping in and out of Q’s stretched hole, and feels his balls lifting.

‘You’re a marvellous fuck, Q,’ he says.

‘I know,’ pants Q. ‘Now shut up and put your back into it.’

James does not need to be told twice. He wrestles Q up onto his knees, pins him tight with an arm across the chest, and lets him have it: deep, hard jabs that punch the breath out of Q with every stroke. Q’s body is quivering, pulled taut as a bowstring. In half a lifetime of destroying everything he touches, James is sure that he has never wrecked anything so lovely. ‘Christ, Q, you know how to take a cock, don’t you?’

‘Oh _god_ ,’ gasps Q. ‘Keep. Doing. That. I think I’m going to come. Oh. I’m definitely going to come.’

‘So come for me, sweetheart,’ says James - and whoever would have thought that cheesy endearment would have such an effect - or maybe it is the hand he slides down between Q’s legs to take hold of his straining cock, the thumb he rubs up against the flare of Q’s cockhead, over the slit. Q groans and bucks and his emission pulses hot and wet against James’ fingers.

James pulls out, flips a trembling but unprotesting Q onto his back, lifts his legs and fucks back into him. There’s a fierce satisfaction to be had in finally - _finally_ \- getting what he wants, having held himself back for long enough to make Q climax twice before taking his turn: pleasure is its own reward. Q strokes his hands up and down James’ thighs. He looks dazed, ecstatic. He looks like it’s bloody Christmas, thinks James. 

This cannot last. ‘Q,’ James chokes out, ‘I’m so close -’

‘Breed me, James,’ says Q, his voice surprisingly level, and that’s it, that’s enough, hearing Q tell him to come inside him, for all the world as if he was giving an order in Q-branch. James feels a sudden rush of emotion, of lust and pride and possessiveness all at once. He’d blow up the fucking world for this boy, he’d do _anything_. His cock jerks so hard he thinks he might black out. He’s still shuddering a good minute afterwards. Q is moving gently beneath him, his breathing loud and shaky in James’ ear.

‘Q. Q. Quartermaster.’ James kisses the length of Q’s neck, his cheek, his closed eyelids, almost worshipful in his fervour. He could stay here forever, he thinks, subsumed within this beautiful, maddening boy-genius, but he’s growing soft now, and reluctantly he slips free of Q’s body, which makes them both grimace. His dick feels rubbed-raw, and the unpleasant sensation jolts him back to reality. ‘Jesus Christ. I think you broke me, you greedy little tart.’

A sly smile curves Q’s lips. ‘Consider it a reboot, 007.’

In the aftermath, there’s the usual faintly distasteful business of disentangling, of wiping down and cleaning up. The sense of connection James felt so strongly - albeit briefly - is already fading. He expects that a tsunami of post-coital disgust will wash over him at any moment, as it always does: the point at which the closeness of another, once so intensely desired, becomes equally unbearable. But there’s merely a brief tussle over who gets the wet patch, which James concedes because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, even if Q was the one who insisted on bare-backing. James pulls a pillow under his head and Q lies down next to him, close but not touching. James wonders if he might not sleep, if only for a little while.

Q, however, has other ideas: he fidgets, and yawns, stretches out his limbs like a starfish until his joints creak. ‘I need a shower. And a cup of tea. No, a pot of tea. And maybe some toast.’

‘I’ll make you some before I go, princess.’ James anticipates that particular epithet will earn him a well-deserved smack. Instead, he feels Q’s hand settle softly on his shoulder.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘You’re getting tea and toast, not a three-course dinner.’

‘Prick. I mean, you don’t have to go.’

James considers this for a moment. He could do with a shower too, and some food. Q’s bed, while not luxurious, is not uncomfortable. And he assumes that Q’s narrow, delightfully pliant body will still be in it when he wakes. He will be able to take his pleasure from that body all over again: an agreeable prospect. Then he considers the alternatives. He could hail a cab to take him home, or he could walk. It’s a good six miles, give or take, and he’s always enjoyed the city in the early hours. He could stop off for black coffee and a full English at that little Italian place where the Krays used to hang out. _And yet, and yet_ \- somehow, he’s just not in the mood for that lonesome cowboy shit.

In summary: there’s no real reason for him _not_ to stay, except that he never normally would - and right now he can’t even begin to fathom what this might mean.

He can deal with it tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic changes a little towards the end of this chapter. I don't particularly want to spoil, but if you like to know what you're getting in advance, then skip to the chapter endnotes first :)
> 
> Otherwise, have some more filth, with a side-order of feelings. You know you want to.

When James wakes, it takes him a millisecond to register where he is (Q’s flat), another millisecond to register how he feels (alive and unscathed but rather cold, he’s half-lying on a damp towel with the duvet bunched up around his hips), and a further millisecond to realise that somebody (whom he rather hopes will turn out to be Q) is sucking his cock. Q's cats - having seized the opportunity to regain the bedroom the moment the door was opened - are watching him inscrutably from on top of the laundry hamper. 

He props himself up on one elbow, peels back the duvet.

Blinking at this sudden exposure to the light, Q pulls off James’ dick and sits up, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. ‘Good morning,’ he says. His lips are red.

‘It’s certainly heading in that direction.’ James scoops Q up into a kiss. He slides his fingers into Q’s ridiculous hair, rubs his scalp until Q hums appreciatively. ‘Sleep well?’ he asks.

‘Wonderfully, thank you,’ says Q, against his neck. ‘Didn’t even need a Zoppy.’

James grimaces. ‘Nasty things.’

‘Yes. Well. It’s either that or tossing and turning all night.’

‘You should get laid more often, then. And stop eating toast in bed. The crumbs get everywhere.’

Q pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales. ‘Sex isn’t some kind of magic cure-all, you know.’

‘Who says? Anyway, Q, you’re not sick. Just frustrated.’

Q gives a rueful little laugh. There’s something that looks like genuine sadness lurking behind his eyes, but this is not a territory into which James wishes to proceed any further - not now. Not ever, really. And there’s only one way James knows how to deal with a potential intrusion of unwelcome feelings.

‘Get up here,’ he says.

James has Q kneel above him - with his knees bracketing James’ armpits and his hands braced against the headboard - so he can mouth at the head of Q’s cock. Q sighs happily. 

_See_ , thinks James. _That's the quickest way to forget_ \- but what he says is, ‘If it’s not too presumptuous of me, I’d really like to bugger you senseless, Quartermaster.’

‘Is that so?’ Q’s mouth quirks into a grin. ’What makes you think I’d let you?’

‘Hm.’ James pretends to consider the question as he laps at Q’s slit. Q takes a deep, shuddery breath. ‘Maybe the way you took it up the arse last night? In several different positions?’

‘God, 007,’ groans Q. ‘Stop _talking_.’ He cants his hips forwards, pushing his dick into James’ mouth.

James takes him in, lets him rock back and forth until he thinks he is getting too close. Then he pulls away with a wet, obscene sound. Q is fully hard now, his balls tight against his body. James’ own cock feels like an iron bar.

‘Shall I do you from behind again? I’d like to admire the view.’ James squeezes Q’s backside.

‘Works for me,’ says Q. His cheeks are pink, pleased. ‘Don’t skimp on the lube.’

Q moves willingly onto his elbows and knees with James’ hand at the back of his neck, but he jumps a little when James presses an exploratory fingertip against his arsehole.

James stops. ‘You sore?’ he asks.

‘I’ll live,’ says Q. ‘Get your prick in me.’

So James does, in one long hitching push that has Q swearing and biting his own forearm. ‘It’s OK,’ Q says, ‘I’m OK,’ as James touches his back and shoulders, questioning wordlessly. ‘Come on now. Give it to me.’

‘No,’ says James. He eases himself out carefully.

Q gives a little mewl of despair. ‘ _Please_.’

‘Q. Here.’ James takes hold of his shoulders and turns him around so that they are sitting face-to-face. ‘Don’t be a martyr. We do this again now, you won’t be sitting down for a week. Might make things a bit awkward in Q-branch.’ He brushes Q’s hair out of his eyes, which makes Q squirm. ‘You want to fuck though, yeah?’

Q looks irritated. James wonders whether his insistence - which up until now he has pegged for common-or-garden masochism, or else the desire to inhabit a body pushed to its limits, a feeling with which he himself is not unfamiliar - is down to the fact that he believes the two of them are unlikely to do this ever again. James cannot not even hazard a guess as to whether Q is right.

‘What part of me makes you think that I don’t?’ says Q. He grabs James’ hand and pulls it between his legs. ‘Certainly not _this_ part.’

‘We can still fuck,’ murmurs James. He takes hold of Q’s dick, gives it a couple of slow tugs. ‘You can fuck me, if you want.’

Q huffs. ‘Hilarious.’

‘Mm. Not quite the reaction I was expecting.’

‘Shit.’ Q laughs nervously, but his cock twitches hard in James’ hand. ‘You actually want me to fuck you?’

‘Or you could have another cup of tea. Whichever you’d prefer.’

‘Don’t be daft - I mean - I know that you do, of course - sometimes - I just didn’t ever think -’ Q presses his forehead to James’ with amusing solemnity. ‘It’d be an honour.’

‘Cut it out,’ grumbles James, pushing him away. ‘This is hardly a deflowering.’

‘Never thought that for a moment.’

‘But it _is_ a time-limited offer, so you’d best get a move on.’

‘Right-o.’ Q is suddenly business-like. He scoots to the edge of the bed and opens the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. James can almost hear the machinery of his brain whirring away: assessing, projecting, calculating. ‘I need my glasses, I can’t see a damn thing. And where did you put the lube?’

James runs a hand down the long pale line of his back. He knows Q cannot see his smile. ‘Whatever are you planning for me, you wicked boy?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that sets the scene for Bonus Top!Q in the next chapter, who would have thought it?! But if that's not your thing, you can skip chapter 8 and rejoin the action in chapter 9 - The End :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q tops, only James gets more than he bargained for. Oblique references to the infamous Casino Royale torture scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far too many feelings for something that was originally intended as gratuitous porn. I'm...sorry??

What Q is planning - at least initially - is to kiss him. And to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. He kisses his James’ shoulders, his chest, his belly. He kisses each muscle and tendon and plane of skin as if James is some kind of three-dimensional anatomy textbook. James has the distinct sense of being mapped, of being _learnt_ , although it’s far from unpleasant - and even less so when Q turns that same fierce attention to the region between his thighs.

But when Q reaches a particular spot - still a savage pucker of scar tissue, the surgeons did what they could - and chooses to linger there, James tenses up despite himself. Every scar tells a story, and this particular story is one that he has tried hard to forget. At the time, a few people who should have bloody known better suggested therapy, which was as good as telling him he was ready to be hauled off for scrap ( _the inevitability of time_ ). Appointment reminders kept popping up his phone. He deleted them. He’d rather handle his own shit in his own way. Badly, if it comes to that.

If Q notices his unease, he does not comment. He simply keeps on kissing him, his lips roaming over James’ skin. His devotion is more implacable than any hatred. And with that devotion, Q deletes an old, unpleasant memory from James’ brain and overwrites it with something sweet and new, as easily as if he were typing a fresh line of code into a console.

‘That was worth the price of admission,’ says James. His eyes are prickling. _Shit_.

Q lifts his head and blinks at him, unsmiling. ‘Aren’t you glad you stayed for the second act?’ he asks.

‘Might even stick around for the encore.’

‘Do,’ says Q.

Q was right to be surprised that he wanted this: it’s not something he does often. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it - although that’s all just physiology at the end of the day, neurotransmitters and nerve endings and the mechanics of friction - but because he finds it hard to deal with the sensation of not being alone in his own body. (Being in somebody else’s body, though? He _loves_ it, needs it like air. He knows how to make other people feel good, how to make himself at home). In the past, whenever he has sought to scratch this particular itch, it’s always been within the context of encounters that have shown scant regard for niceties or tenderness. Something he does to test himself.

Daring somebody to batter the door down is not at all the same as inviting them in.

The penetration is awkward - he expects it to be. Fingers are fine, he’s never been averse to a finger up the backside in the heat of the moment. More and more women seem to enjoy giving that a go, which is nice (the internet is obviously good for _something_ ). And Q knows what he’s doing, that’s quite apparent. He uses vast amounts of lube, coaxing and caressing until James feels almost more than ready, and has to tell him to give over for a bit (Q looks insufferably smug). But then fingers don’t have the weight or - more crucially - the intent of a body behind them.

‘Breathe,’ says Q, his forehead wrinkling with concern as James swears and flinches beneath him.

‘I am bloody breathing.’

‘I mean, _with_ me,’ says Q, and yeah, that works. _Clever boy_ , thinks James.

At last, Q is all the way inside and James feels completely - no, not invaded. Surrounded. Not a deflowering, this is nothing that he hasn’t done before. Although it never felt quite like this.

Q is bent forward, his mouth slack against James’ cheek. His entire body is tense, waiting for James to give him the go-ahead. James can feel the effort it is taking Q to hold himself back, when every single part of him must want so badly to move. He is touched and enraged in equal measure: resentment boils up in his throat like acid. He needs to get a grip. He can’t have this, Q treating him like he is made of bloody glass. He will only end up hating him for it, and hating himself.

He pokes Q hard in the ribs, startling him. ‘You don’t have to be gentle with me.’

‘Wasn’t planning on it,’ Q fires back.

He’s true to his word. Q urges James’ legs up around his waist and ploughs into him, over and over again until his narrow chest gleams with sweat. _Well, that escalated quickly_ , thinks James. Q is much stronger than he had anticipated him to be, a lithe and quicksilver kind of strength that makes James feel brutish and lumbering in comparison. Every stroke builds into a gathering swell of feeling and soon James is pushing his hips up for more, accepting, welcoming.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘This is -’ He cannot find the words.

‘Good,’ says Q. ‘This is _good_.’

Q doesn’t talk much when he’s in the driving seat, or else he seems to understand that what is happening now is different from the playful, provocative skirmishing they have indulged in thus far. James is glad of it. He is not sure whether he could countenance this being played out for laughs. However - the very facts of the matter prove conclusively that Q is not only stronger than James had imagined (the back-and-forth of his hips is relentless, he doesn’t slow his pace for a moment), but cleverer as well.

 _Fuck_.

James had thought to break into Q’s flat and impress him with his swagger and his innuendo, his honed muscles and his big cock. Take what he wanted and bugger right back off again, leaving Q breathless and grateful in his wake. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the saucy young pup. If the experience was so damn memorable it left Q mooning at him over his favourite Keep-Calm-And-Code mug of Earl Grey every time James sauntered through Q-branch - _and how could it be otherwise_ \- then that could only add to the fun, surely?

But things are not quite going to plan. The mission is slipping from his control. Oh, the sex has been predictably fantastic, no doubt about it. Q’s body excites James more than he cares to admit - his pert arse, his tiny nipples. His prick. The taste of him, the way he feels inside. And yet - James is beginning to wonder whether he has not acted like the crassest kind of fool.

‘Here.’ Q scrambles to drag James’ legs up over his shoulders. James flings his arms above his head and grabs hold of the headboard, surrenders to the fucking. So this is what it means to be taken. He can do this. He wants this.

‘ _God_ , James,’ gasps Q, harsh and urgent in his ear. ‘Can you - do you think you could -’

James thinks that he just might. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes, I -’

Q shifts a little and suddenly - there. Oh, _there_. Pleasure seems to blossom all over James’ body, from the inside out. He arches up and comes without a hand on him, spilling white ropes of semen all the way up to his chest, shaking and shaking.

‘Oh _fuck_ ,’ blurts Q, pushing in ferociously hard, and his easy rhythm stutters, falters. His body jerks as he starts to come. ‘I wanted to -’

Q pulls out, trembling, takes himself in hand and spends his last few spurts over James’ cock and balls. He crouches over James, still stroking himself even as his prick softens, his hips rocking minutely into empty air. Then he bends his head, touches his tongue to the shallow concavity of James’ belly where their mingled come is already cooling.

James reaches out to stroke Q’s hair. Strange, how his hand is so unsteady. ‘Marking your territory?’

‘You were already under my jurisdiction,’ says Q, and surges up to kiss him. James can taste the pair of them in both their mouths.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which normal snarky service is resumed.

‘Hm,’ says James, ruminatively. ‘Bit weird, that. If you think about it.’

‘What is? What are you on about now?’ Q, who has been sprawled out fast asleep across the middle of the bed, opens his eyes.

‘Half an hour ago you had your cock in my arse and I don’t even know your name.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Of course you know my name.’ Q yawns.

‘I’m not talking about Q, or Quartermaster. Those are _titles_. I mean your real name.’

Q sits up and gives him a look that can only be interpreted as _bitch, please_. ‘Bit late for romance, isn’t it? But I’ll keep an eye out for the Interflora delivery. Just so you know, I like white roses. Nice heritage ones with bloody great thorns, none of that smooth-stemmed bollocks. Just don’t send them to Q-branch.’

‘Come on. Tell me.’ 

Q blinks once, twice. ‘It’s Alex,’ he says. ‘My name is Alex.’

James is not sure what annoys him more: the lie itself, or Q’s piss-poor attempt at lying. ‘Your tells need work,’ he says, and scoffs, ‘ _Alex_.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Q snaps back.

With impeccable timing, the larger of Q’s two cats chooses this precise moment to leap up onto the foot of the bed. Q clicks his tongue and pats the duvet - James notes how the line of his shoulders is tense with anger - but the cat ignores him and slinks over to James instead, tail held aloft. James extends a hand in greeting and the cat bumps its head against his palm, purring loudly.

‘Treacherous little shit,’ grumbles Q.

James rubs his knuckles under the cat’s chin until it tires of his ministrations and jumps down again. After a while, Q says - with commendable straight-facedness - ‘Don’t think I’m not capable of throwing you out of this bed if you persist in taking advantage of my pussy.’

‘You must be confusing me with somebody else,’ says James, equally cool. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Good. Just need to know we’re on the same page.’

‘Yup.’

Q falls to worrying at a loose button on the duvet. ‘So,’ he says, at last.

‘So,’ says James.

‘Still straight then? Zero on the Kinsey scale?’

‘Mm. Zero might be pushing it. But still straight. All this...is strictly out of hours. Off the record.’

‘007?’

‘Quartermaster?’

‘Sure I haven’t turned you? Even just a tiny bit?’

James fixes him with a glare that would make a representative cross-sectional sample of international terrorists fear for their lives, but - rather disconcertingly - this seems to have little effect on Q, who sits grinning to himself for a moment, then claps a hand to his forehead. ‘God, James, shouldn’t I be in Q-branch? What day is it?’

James lifts his arm to check his watch, but his wrist is bare: he remembers then that he took off his watch and put it in his trouser pocket. His trousers are still lying crumpled on the floor and the smaller of Q’s two cats is sitting upon them, cleaning its backside with an expression of concentrated disdain.

‘I think it’s tomorrow,’ says James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. I hope you enjoyed reading this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
